


under the big top

by etoilette



Series: AU-gust 2020 [24]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Circus, Crack, Las Vegas, M/M, Masturbation, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26156503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoilette/pseuds/etoilette
Summary: “Holy shit,” Ryuji whispers, and he hears Ann repeat the sentiment, her mouth agape as she shovels fries into her mouth.Haru claps a hand to her mouth as she whisper-yells, “This is what I came all the way to Las Vegas for!”ORThe Cirque du Dique is a circus-themed strip club located in the heart of Las Vegas. It's not a place that Ryuji would willingly enter, but how can he say no to his friends? It's a decision that cost him and his sanity big time.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Niijima Makoto/Okumura Haru, Sakamoto Ryuji/Takamaki Ann
Series: AU-gust 2020 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860436
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	under the big top

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This fic is rated E for masturbation, cumming, Shido, Shido's dick. There is no sex involved, actually  
> Additional TW's: this is really weird?, dick weights
> 
> Written for Day #25 of AU-gust: Circus AU. I actually had some very cute concepts for circus AU (circus brats running around, actual gymnast duo, etc.) but this was the one I decided to go with. I have really fallen behind on the AU stuff because the Private Detectives AU fic kicked my ass, and also I took a small break to help with burn-out and now it's like I lost all my writing drive.
> 
> I've been to a strip club once in Vegas with my dad and I'll be the first to admit I was drunk as hell and only remember sliding money into a girl's panties. So obviously this is probably not the most accurate to IRL strip clubs.
> 
> A big big thank you to [Blazhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blazhy/pseuds/Blazhy), [mopgoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousmop/pseuds/anonymousmop), [lady_peony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony) and [papersandals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersandals/pseuds/papersandals)! Not only for coming up with this cursed idea with me (thanks...?) but also for being so brave as to accept being credited in here.

The Las Vegas sun beats down on Ryuji’s neck, and he feels as if his skin is burning to a crisp. He's sweating up a storm thanks to the humid and muggy air, and one would figure that the air blowing against his skin would cool him down, but it just makes him sticky and disgusting. He curses the Ryuji from half an hour ago, when he adamantly refused to buy a parasol with Ann and Haru because “I ain’t no girl and I ain’t gonna be a walking tourist stereotype.”

Now he watches miserably as Ann practically frolics down the strip under her new garishly pink parasol, sipping pina colada all the while from the plastic guitar around her neck. Next to her, Haru and Makoto share one of Haru’s frilly white parasols, with Haru practically glued onto Makoto’s arm like a barnacle despite the hot Nevada weather. 

“It ain’t a young adult summer vacation until we go to Vegas,” Ryuji had said, almost as a joke a mere week ago. Really, he had planned on spending the summer relaxing at the arcade, but it wasn’t until he found himself on a private Okumura Foods jet that he remembered Haru is the type of person to act first, think never.

And now here he is, walking in the desert in scorching forty degrees, dehydrating himself like a dumbass because Ann was adamant about buying themed alcoholic drinks with the containers that you can take home. 

There was no real itinerary, outside of the rather casual one that Makoto put together last minute, but there is one stop that Haru admitted was essentially the only reason she decided to fund the Las Vegas trip -- a strip club called Cirque du Dique.

Ryuji remembers looking it up the day before. A circus-themed strip club, located right at the very edge of the Las Vegas strip, famous for its impressive range of acts and its cozy interior atmosphere. He may or may not have memorized that tagline just from the sheer number of times he’s read and reread it, unable to believe his own eye

The exterior of Cirque du Dique is bright and garish, similar to the infamous Circus Circus Hotel. It advertises “TONIGHT: STRONGMAN SHIDO AND THE TRICKSTERS” in large black impact font and despite the sun still high in the sky, the sign is illuminated by lightbulbs so bright that Ryuji feels as if his retinas are about to be burned right out of his skull.

“We’re here!” Haru exclaims, taking off, her heels clacking on the call-girl-studded pavement.

“Haru, wait!” Makoto yells, running after her.

“Oh shit,” Ann says, spitting out a mouthful of alcohol. She turns and grabs Ryuji’s hand. “Come on, Ryuji, before we lose them!”

They can still see Haru’s white parasol clearly -- a beacon in the sea of people -- but the sweaty warmth of Ann’s hand in his wipes all thought from his brain as he allows himself to be dragged along by her.

“I would like three adult tickets and one king ticket please,” Haru says, digging out her black credit card and placing it delicately into the hand of the receptionist.

“What’s a king ticket?” Ann whispers into Ryuji’s ear.

Ryuji balks away at the stench of alcohol on her breath. “Beats me.”

The two of them look at Makoto, who has a long-suffering look on her face. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

Cirque du Dique is quite the roomy establishment, with low atmospheric lighting. It looks less like Ryuji’s idea of a stereotypical strip club, and a little bit more like a jazz club, with the numerous round tables and lounge chairs. Despite the classy interior though, he is painfully reminded at the circus theme through the colourful curtain on the stage -- yellow, red, and white -- and at the waiters and waitresses dressed as clowns.

“This is so weird,” Ryuji whispers to Ann as a colourful waitress drops by and takes Haru and Makoto’s orders. “Why did Haru want to come here so bad?”

“Who knows?” Ann whispers back. She doesn’t look as lost or confused as Ryuji though, and she’s looking around, actively taking in the whole atmosphere with a look of awe on her face. “But it’s pretty fun, right?”

Ryuji isn’t sure if fun is the word he would use for this, but sure. Before he can ask Haru exactly how she heard of Cirque du Dique, the lights start to dim even further, and Haru lets out an excited squeal. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Haru grab onto Makoto’s arm and Makoto give her a tired look.

The colourful curtains rise and the playful melody of Fucik’s “Entrance of the Gladiators” start to sound. The excited whisperings and murmurs of the crowd die down and despite himself, Ryuji feels his heart beat faster in his chest as the opening act walks on stage.

He’s an old man -- not old like a grandpa age, but definitely somewhere in his late forties -- with no hair and he’s dressed in a tight black leotard that shows off his impressively muscular frame. His bald head glows softly under the fluorescents of Cirque du Dique, like a miniature sun. Ryuji hears Makoto gasp and whisper, “Those abs are amazing!” and he’s inclined to agree. The man looks like he has a twelve-pack, even when he’s not flexing. 

“Put your hands together for Strongman Shido!” the announcement calls out and the audience goes wild, clapping fervently and whooping until Strongman Shido raises a hand imperiously and smirks. Immediately, the crowd descends into a hushed silence, awed by the casual confidence and dominance radiating from his shiny bronzed form.

“Watch as the modern-day Samson lifts a weight that’s not one, not two, but three kilograms heavy!!” the commentator continues, and the crowd gasps theatrically.

Ryuji thinks he even hears someone mutter, “That madman’s gonna kill himself.”

“Three kilograms's nothing, right?” Ryuji whispers to Ann. “What’re they workin’ themselves up about?”

Ann shrugs, but Haru leans over Makoto and whispers excitedly, “Didn’t you read the pamphlet before we walked in, Ryuji-kun?”

Ryuji shakes his head. “What am I gonna do with all that English?”

Makoto shoots him a look. “They were offering pamphlets in Japanese too, you know.”

Ryuji did not know, but before he could stutter out an excuse, his attention is grabbed by the loud cheers and adoring screams of the crowd. He turns back to the stage and watches as Strongman Shido displays his impressive girth. Ryuji thinks that the penis might be half the length of his forearm, even while soft.

Dangling from it are hoops pierced into the head, and attached to the hoops is what appears to be, to Ryuji’s absolute bewilderment, a miniature dumbbell. He can’t read the number from the distance, but he can guess that it says “3 kg” on it from the commentator. 

“Holy shit,” Ryuji whispers, and he hears Ann repeat the sentiment, her mouth agape as she shovels fries into her mouth. 

Haru claps a hand to her mouth as she whisper-yells, “This is what I came all the way to Las Vegas for!”

Strongman Shido stands proudly and starts swaying his hips sinuously and seductively, running his hands over his hardening nipples. He strokes one hand up and rubs it over his bald head, while catcalls start to rise up from the crowd. Before Ryuji’s eyes, Strongman Shido’s dick starts to swell and fill, and as it curves up, the dumbbell rises with it. 

There does not seem to be any sign of strain on Strongman Shido’s face, even though there is a weight slowly spiralling around and around from the bulbous head of his monstrous erection.

“I wish I could get my mouth on that!” Ryuji hears a woman sigh blissfully from around him. He isn’t sure if any normal person could fit their mouth down even a quarter of that shaft without horrendously hurting themselves. 

Strongman Shido starts to strut on stage, moving closer towards the edge, and he spreads his arms out to grandiose applause. Bills are flung on stage from every which way, and the patrons practically fall over themselves to try and stuff money into Strongman Shido’s hands. 

When Strongman Shido passes their table, he catches Ryuji’s eye and snorts impetuously, as if Ryuji was nothing more than a bug.

“That bastard,” Ryuji hisses, though he knows better than to try and stand up and tackle the man. Not that he would want to anyway, considering Strongman Shido’s shaft was as long and as dangerous-looking as a javelin.

“Everyone put your hands together one last time for Strongman Shido!” the commentator yells, and the crowd obediently does so, clapping and cheering and whistling as Strongman Shido takes a bow, the metallic clangs of the hoops and dumbbell on his dick barely audible over the enthusiastic cheering of the crowd.

He disappears into the employee exit, his sculpted bronzed ass swaying the whole time. The lights dim, and a drumroll starts, the beginnings of a fast-paced jazz tune starting up. 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the act you’ve all been waiting for --”

“Don’t people come all the way here for that strongman, dude? What’s more than that?” Ryuji whispers to Ann. Ann opens her mouth to whisper something back, but Makoto shoots them a dirty look.

“Hush!” she hisses.

Ryuji and Ann straighten up their backs and stare forward as a spotlight illuminates the colourful curtains of Cirque du Dique. 

When the stage becomes visible again, there are two scantily clad men in matching leotards standing on stage. One of them has messy black hair that looks like he forcibly wrestled it into submission with a hefty amount of hair gel and barrettes. There is a challenging glint in his steel grey eyes, and he smirks haughtily at the gathered crowd. 

The second one has long brown hair, and a sweet face as he waves cheerily to the crowd. Girlish screams rise up from the crowd, loud and piercing to the point that Ryuji reflexively covers his ears with his hands. 

“Meet the Tricksters!” the commentator screams into the mic. “Akira Kurusu --” the black haired boy bows, “-- and Goro Akechi --” the brown-haired boy bows, “-- are here to give you an experience you’ll never forget!”

It’s a tough promise, considering the act that came before them, but Ryuji finds himself pleasantly surprised. The show itself is fantastic, albeit not as much stripping as he thought there would be.

The two of them move in perfect harmony, cartwheeling and backflipping around each other, yet never getting so close as to crash. Akechi takes a running leap and Akira grabs him by the waist, tossing him up into the air. Akechi somersaults once and when he lands, he lands hands-first into Akira’s palms, the black-haired stripper balancing him perfectly before Akechi twists himself gracefully back onto the ground.

The crowd oohs and ahhs, and for a second there, Ryuji can almost trick himself into thinking he’s sitting in a circus rather than a strip club.

Then, it starts.

In unison, the Tricksters start to strip. Akechi pulls the collar of his leotard down, exposing his pale collarbone and shoulders. He gazes out at the crowd through hooded lids and just before he pulls the leotard down so low that he would reveal his nipple, he stops, practically teasing the crowd with his skin. He leans forward as if he wants to show off his non-existent cleavage, and he sensually runs one hand from his knee up to his inner thigh.

While Akechi's stripping is more subdued, Akira's style is more flamboyant and stylish. He also pulls the collar of his leotard down but he has no qualms about showing off his bare chest. He caresses his own chest with one hand and uses the other to pull the leotard down even further, until Ryuji could see his belly button. He strikes a pose like so, with his hands all over his body and his butt angled to show off its curves.

The whole time, the crowd goes wild. Their screams get hoarse as Akira and Akechi approach each other and strip the other one down, slowly and sensually, peeling down the latext bit by bit. It's almost like they're playing chicken. The slower Akira goes, the slower Akechi goes, almost like they're testing each other's patience. Rather than the choreographed cooperation of before, it feels to Ryuji like a private competition between the two.

He isn't interested but he finds himself being drawn in. There's something magnetic in the slow intimacy of the two of them stripping the other out of their leotard, and it isn't until the thin fabric is pooled around their ankles that he comes back to himself. It's a sharp reminder that he's not watching some sort of romantic porn, but rather some pervert's idea of a strip show.

The two wear panties so thin that their dicks are practically hanging out, and Ryuji desperately averts his eyes. It’s a little hard to when Akechi walks past them, his hips moving in an exaggerated way. Patrons practically clamour over themselves in an effort to shove bills down his pants, and Ryuji sees some of them try to cop a feel until Akechi gently places his hand on their wrists.

“Come on, Mako-chan,” Haru says, excitedly pulling out several hundreds from her wallet. “Ryuji-kun, Ann-chan, you too!”

“I think I’ll pass,” Ryuji says, watching as Makoto and Ann apprehensively take the money. “I’m not really interested in touching a dude.”

“Boo,” Ann says, blowing a raspberry.

When Akechi walks by them, Haru excitedly shoves two hundred dollar bills into his g-string, and Ann almost knocks over the remaining food and drinks on the table in her haste to do the same thing. Makoto hesitates for so long that Akechi almost walks away, but right before he does so, she manages to shove the money down the back of his underwear.

“I touched his butt,” Makoto whispers. She doesn’t sound very reverent about it. In fact, she sounds horrified and disgusted.

Despite that, Haru grabs the hand that Makoto had used to tip Akechi. “I’ll still love you, no matter what you’ve touched.”

When Akechi and Akira finish their parade for tips, they return to the stage. They must have unloaded the majority of the money somewhere, because there are only a scant few bills left, no doubt stuffed down their pants during the return trip to the stage.

“I suppose you all know what time it is now?” Akechi says into the mic. 

Ryuji has no idea what he’s talking about -- it’s way too dark to check his watch -- but he doesn’t have to wait long for the answer.

For a second, he worries that the rumbling is an earthquake. He feels the entire table shake, and he hears a cacophony of clattering and pounding. It takes him a second to realize that the large majority of patrons are clapping their hands fiercely on the table, in a sort of makeshift drumroll. Some tables look around bemusedly before joining in, and Ryuji isn’t surprised when he feels theirs do the same, with Haru and Ann doing their best to make up for Ryuji and Makoto’s lack of enthusiasm.

“What is this?” Ryuji whispers into Makoto’s ear. 

“It’s the king’s cup of cum,” Makoto hisses back.

“Yes, the king’s cup of cum!” the commentator’s voice says, as if he heard Ryuji’s question. “No trip to Cirque du Dique is complete without a nice sip from the Holy Grail itself! Who’s going to be the winner today? Will Akira extend his lead, or will Akechi finally turn the tables?”

A waiter dressed as a jester runs on stage and holds up a golden goblet for everyone to see. “The king’s cup, milords!” he says loudly before setting it down a good distance away from the Tricksters. He jingles offstage. The sound of bells barely have time to dissipate before Akira and Akechi start to furiously jerk themselves off.

It is the oddest sight Ryuji has ever seen in his entire life.

“I hear that to train for this, they practice shooting cans with their cum until they knock them down,” Haru says excitedly. She’s gripping the edge of her sundress so tight that she’s practically tearing a hole into the soft fabric. “I hear that whoever get their cum in first is the one who can dump it on the other!”

“Where did you read this?” Makoto asks, sounding scandalized.

“On the official website!”

Akira and Akechi stand next to each other, their hands pumping their dicks until they’re fully erect. It seems like they are competing even here, with their eyes focused only on each other rather than actually into the chalice they’re supposed to be ejaculating into. 

“Oh, it looks like they’re close!” the commentator yells excitedly.

“Already?” Ryuji can’t help but yell, and he bears the brunt of fifty angered hushings around him. “Man, Americans are crazy.”

Akira tosses his head back theatrically, moaning so loud that it seems to echo in the sudden ringing silence of the strip club. With a satisfied groan, white streaks start to shoot out from the tip, landing into the chalice. 

Akechi lets out a sound that sounds like half whine and half growl, and when he climaxes, his cum hits the side of the chalice instead of actually inside, dripping onto the polished wood of the stage.

“No!” Akechi yells. He continues working his dick furiously, even as he continues to cum. Each subsequent jerk milks the cum out but none of it reaches home. “No!”

“Looks like I’m the winner yet another night,” Akira says teasingly. 

Akechi is still furiously rubbing at his penis but Akira walks by him and picks up the cup. Ryuji can see the milky trails of Akechi’s cum slowly sliding down its side but Akira doesn't care even as the liquid drips down his finger. "Customers with a king's ticket, please approach the stage."

A king's ticket is the kind that Haru has, Ryuji remembers, but it seems as if she's the only woman who purchased a ticket. Men of all ages and sizes walk up to the stage, albeit with an oddly lopsided gait. He isn't sure what exactly the king's ticket means until he seems the men pull down their pants and start --

“Ryuji-kun,” Haru says, her voice sweet and gentle. She presents her ticket to Ryuji with a flourish. “Use this to cum into the cup.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Ryuji says, pushing it back. Or he tries to, anyway, his arm straining with the effort of trying to get the ticket away from his face. 

Haru’s smile barely changes, and she holds Ryuji at bay with little effort on her part.

“I paid for the ticket, you know.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“One minute left! Customers with a valid king’s ticket, please make your way to the cum chalice now!”

“Ryuji, just go,” Makoto says, looking extremely pained. “Haru’s not going to let it go until you do.”

He can hear the moans and groans of the king's ticket holders as they start to climax, and one of them even yells out, "Tricksters, I didn't masturbate for two months just for the chance to make you drink as much of my cum as possible!"

"I apologize, but we don't drink the cum anymore," Akechi says.

"Fuck!"

“C’mon, I wanna see you jerk off into the king’s cup!” Ann yells, sounding _extremely_ drunk despite her clear enunciation. 

“No!” Ryuji yelps, his voice several octaves higher than he’s ever heard it. “No, I’m not gonna!”

“H-hey,” an unfamiliar voice sounds from behind them. The four of them turn as a unit to see a Japanese boy with bad posture and short dark hair. He looks like someone Ryuji would see loitering around Akihabara at all hours of the day. “If you’re not gonna use that king’s ticket, could I…? I’ve always wanted to see the Tricksters covered in my cum.”

“It’s not just gonna be your cum, dude,” Ryuji points out.

The boy rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Well, I know. But just the thought of it, you know…”

“No, man. I don’t know.”

“Ryuji, stop being so mean,” Ann snaps. She shoots an apologetic look at Haru and says, “Haru, why don’t you give the ticket to him? It’s better than letting it go to waste, right?”

Haru pouts. “Well, alright,” she says as she hands the ticket to the boy.

He clutches it as if it’s a golden ticket and he’s just been granted full access into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. “Oh boy,” he says, a grin stretching over his face. “Oh boy, oh boy! Thank you guys _so_ much. I’ll write about you when I blog about this experience!”

“Please don’t,” Makoto says.

But before the boy can walk forward and fulfill his dreams, the commentator yells, “And that’s it! Thank you, kings! Now, Tricksters, receive the appreciation of your fans!”

Over the loud screaming and cheering and the sudden “Entrance of the Gladiators,” no one could hear the dismayed screaming of the boy except for Ryuji and the table. 

Akira walks over to the chalice and holds it aloft in the air. “The Holy Grail of Cum,” he announces. Without even a moment of hesitation he arches his back and tilts the cup, allowing the white liquid to drip onto and slide off his pale skin. 

Despite himself, Ryuji follows the tantalizing trail of the combined cum as it makes its way down Akira’s collarbone and his nipple and his toned abs until it disappears into his panties. Thankfully none of it gets on any of the money. 

“Come here, loser,” Akira says, gesturing Akechi over to him. 

There is a murderous look in Akechi’s eye as he stalks toward Akira but his voice is as soft and pleasant as ever as he laughs and says, “Give it your best shot.”

Akira smiles and, with one violent jerk of his arm, splashes Akechi’s upper body with the cum. The movement is so aggressive that some of it even gets onto Akechi’s chin and he splutters, backing up. Screams rise from the crowd, and Ryuji swears he could hear someone say “I hope he drank some of it!”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Americans.

Akira sets the chalice onto the ground with a flourish and says, “Thank you, everyone! Have a good rest of the night and enjoy your dinner!”

He grabs Akechi’s hand, raises it into the air, and the two bow low as the crowd gives a round of applause. Some bills flutter onstage, but the two strippers don’t spare them a second look, walking towards the employee room, waving and blowing kisses the whole time. 

As soon as their feet leave the stage, Akechi wrenches his hand out of Akira’s grip. He stalks by Ryuji’s table, and Ryuji catches the bitter stench of cum. It’s a wholly unpleasant smell, but patrons move their faces closer to the aisle surreptitiously as if hoping for a whiff of Akechi’s aroma.

When Akira passes by their table, practically sashaying, he looks down at Ryuji’s table and blinks in surprise. “Ryuji?”

Before Ryuji can ask how he knows his name, Ann shoves into his shoulder and says, “What, Ryuji, you _know_ him? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Akira,” Akechi snaps. He’s standing in front of the employee exit, his hand on the knob. There’s a grimace on his face and he is tapping his foot incessantly on the tiled floor. “Hurry up.”

“Right!” Akira calls back. He turns back to Ryuji and, using his fingers, makes circles around his eyes as if they’re glasses. When he puts his hands down, there is a small smile on his face, and Ryuji realizes that this is perhaps a glimpse into Akira's true personality under the grandeur and posturing of his Tricksters persona. The only time he’s ever seen the man underneath the mask all night.

The stripper runs off, waving goodbye. It’s such a warm gesture that Ryuji can’t help but wave back. 

“I think we went to school with him,” Makoto says, her voice strained. “He looked so different with his hair styled like that, but wasn’t that the transfer student in your class when we were in high school, Ryuji?”

Transfer student? Glasses? Black hair? Now that he’s thinking back on it, there had indeed been someone matching that description in his class. Something Akira. 

Akira?

“For real?!” Ryuji yelps, turning to stare at the employee exit. But the only thing that he sees is the steel grey of the door.


End file.
